Witch Mountain: Known World Series, #3

By Lon E. Varnadore

Bors, of the Hidden Mountain Tribe, finds himself on a mission to save the beings of Calisto from the foul clutches of the sorceress in Witch Mountain. Along the way he finds an unconscious man, Rick Tavish, Space Ranger. Together, they must face off against not only the terror of Witch Mountain, but Rick must face off against Al'Kara, the Martian woman whom he has traveled with and started to love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lon Varnadore
• Release date: Oct 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393725428

Lon E. Varnadore

is a writer of many facets of the science fiction and fantasy genres. Sci-fi noir like Mostly Human, raypunk stories of the Known World Series, to space operas like Junker Blues and Starlight Saga.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The sun, distant as it was too Mars, hung low in the sky when Bors spotted the marauders' first sign. He’d gone ahead to scout the edge before the dead Northern Ocean shore. The dry, shriveled chasm that once held water stretched out for Bors to see to the North. His eyes roved over a massive, dry, bed of bleached bones of ancient sea creatures with long-dead patches of seaweed gone to discolored dust. He spotted the distant trails of dust as signs of a coming force. The dust rills grew thicker and wider, speaking of the great number of the coming marauders. Once he spotted the signs of the oncoming horde, he spun to return with swiftness to those who hired him.

Unlike the Blue Hand merchants or a majority of those that called Mars home, Bors was able to keep pace with their wagons and scouted ahead on foot. His tribe, The Hidden Mountain, now lost to time, were fleet of foot. It was one of the reasons he had been hired by the Blue Hand. Another was for the fighting prowess he would bring to bear on marauders and cutthroats for the dyed-woad merchants. When he crested the last rise, away from the Northern Ocean basin, he saw that the horde skirmishers had gotten around him to soften the Blue Hand. The battle was already joined by marauding Sharpteeth and those of the Blue Hand that could wield some kind of weapon.

When he saw that it was the cannibalistic Sharpteeth that attacked, his rage doubled, fueled by what the villainous tribe had done to his own kith and kin. This spurred him forward. It was a losing battle from the moment Bors joined. Even his skills couldn’t stop the merchant train of five wagons from being cut in half from the thirty that had hired him. The Soul of the Mother started to sing in his head, though he didn’t wield her, not yet. He did not wish to pay her price if he could help it. The song still filled his eyes with a red haze, feeling his body thrum with a berserker’s power. While he cut down the first few marauders with his long dagger and axe, he lost himself in the battle rage.

Coming out of the rage, shoving the cracked haft of his axe forward, Bors pushed an attacking cannibal away from him. It gave him a moment to breathe and take in the battle scene. He realized, looking over the broken remains of the caravan, the caravan is lost. The Sharpteeth will kill everyone. Yet, all were dead or dying, and the three Sharpteeth tribesman turned to focus their attacks on Bors. They laughed, licking their blades to heighten their own rage and bloodlust to overwhelm Bors.

The shove of his weapon also caused the crack along the haft to splinter more before the head of the axe dropped to the blood-caked soil. Useless. Bors dropped the useless axe haft with a grunt. With the axe gone, the black iron sword on his back was the only weapon left to him. He felt, more than heard, the singing of the Soul of the Mother in his head pitch lower, thrumming inside his own chest. For a heartbeat, he felt the weight of the sword lighten, desiring to come forth and taste blood. He paused, not wanting to accept more of her help. Before another moment passed, a shriek of an attacking Sharpteeth cannibal bearing down on him drove his instincts. His calloused hand wrapped tight around the age-worn leather of the sword hilt, pulling Soul of the Mother free with a single, fluid movement.

The Soul of the Mother weighed little in his hands. He sliced upwards, taking the top third of the first attacking cannibal’s head off. Her song in his head was forming a full-throated dirge of death. He brought the sword blade down on the other two Sharpteeth that rushed towards Bors. The diagonal slash downward clove through one, with the pitted black blade stopping in the pelvis at the other, caught in the bone of the dying cannibal. Even the bone of the Sharpteeth clansmen didn’t stop the Soul of the Mother for more than a moment before the blade bit through the flesh of the dead tribesman with a final flick of Bors’ wrist. Drawing back his blade in a high-fighting stance by instinct, he readied himself for the next opponent. His chest heaved, hair wild and matted with sweat and blood, coating him in a fine sheen of red and pink. His eyes unfocused on anything more than the red haze before him.

A heartbeat passed before he realized he was alone with the dead. The screams and cries of the two clashing clans were gone. Bors was greeted by the silence of the dead and the slight moan of the Martian wind, blowing towards the dead Northern Ocean. Blinking in the wan Martian sunlight, he realized he stood alone, feeling his failure weigh upon him. He was the lone survivor, coated in the gore of friend and foe alike. A cold wind from the cliffs of what once was Olympus Mons rippled over his blood-caked body as the realization that he’d survived snuck in.

The sword grew heavy. Dropping the sword point to the ground, a moment later, one of Bors’ knees followed to the blood-soaked red-orange sand. He looked up at the ancient bone hilt of the Soul of the Mother, like an idol to worship. The crossguard was a macabre collection of freely given tribesmen’s’